


Luxuries

by AustinB



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: But mostly fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, One-Shots, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustinB/pseuds/AustinB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy Ichabbie one-shots for your aching heart</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luxury

Content wasn't a word Abbie generally had use for. She'd always had something lurking, whether it be secrets, guilt or a Headless Horseman trying to kill her and bring on the end of days. But Sleepy Hollow had been quiet for the past three days. Once she convinced herself, and Crane, to edge off of high alert, they'd begun to relax.

She still had normal duties at the station, of course, which was why her partner was loitering in her living room at the moment. After particularly long days, she managed to get him to sleep in her guest room to avoid the long drive out to Corbin's old cabin. He put up a helluva fight about it the first time she suggested it, as she'd anticipated, but he warmed to the idea quickly. Abbie suspected he enjoyed sharing a space with someone as much as she did, especially considering the nightmare monsters and demons who were keen on them. She'd admit (only to herself and never to him) that she sometimes used the excuse to keep an eye on him, when she thought he was having a particularly hard time dealing with the present day "nonsense" or his wife's tendency toward secrecy.

Today was just a good old-fashioned long day, and she'd just had a hot shower and was listening to Crane quietly shuffling through her meager DVD collection in the living room. Abbie had donned her flannel shorts and a camisole and had opened the bathroom door to let the steam out when Crane came into the doorway. He was holding a DVD in his hand, inspecting it with suspicion. He'd shed his coat and boots and looked rather naked in his stocking feet with his shirtsleeves rolled up. It was a good look.

Abbie had one foot up on the counter and was slathering cocoa butter on her legs. She fought back a wicked grin and waited for him to notice her state of 'undress,' as he liked to call it.

"Miss Mills, how on earth is an entire-oh dear!" he exclaimed. Crane spun around, heat rising to his cheeks. Abbie looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of his blush. She knew just the expression he'd be wearing, but it was just too adorable to miss.

"I beg your pardon, Leftenant, I had no idea you were-" he struggled to find a word that wouldn't make her snicker or him blush deeper, as he stared steadfastly at the hallway wall. He cursed the perfect clarity of his memory, already knowing that the image of Miss Mills' bare, delicate foot hitched up on the counter, her shapely naked legs and smooth, strong arms bared to him, would be immortalized forever.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Crane, I'm perfectly decent!" Abbie exclaimed, in that half exasperated, half amused tone she so often used with him. "I'm not going to dress like a nun in my own home to appease your delicate sensibilities, so you might as well get used to it," she stated, still unable to keep the smile from her voice. If she was perfectly honest, she enjoyed shocking him perhaps a little too much, but it was such a trip to know a guy who'd rather poke his eye out than look at her thighs and violate her honor.

Crane reluctantly turned around and resolutely looked her in the eye. She grinned and he arched a brow at her obvious pleasure. "Yes, well, it is your home as you say."

Abbie continued rubbing the lotion into her legs, from her ankle over her calf up to her thigh. Crane's eyes flicked down to her hands, causing a new rush of pink to dot his cheeks, then he turned away again.

"Well I'll just be..." he trailed off, intending to awkwardly abandon whatever initial question he'd had for her, but lingered. "What on earth is that cream you're applying? Are you well?" he asked, turning to her again, his insatiable curiosity getting the better of him.

"It's lotion," Abbie explained. There were times when her patience with being his guide to the 21st century ran out, since he asked questions about absolutely everything. But there were also times she delighted in seeing his reactions to new innovations. "It hydrates your skin. I suppose it must've been a luxury in your time. I bought you some with the other toiletries."

He looked abashed. "Ah, yes. I must admit, my experimentation with the...gelatinous liquids was limited."

"Here," Abbie said, putting her foot back onto the tiled floor and turning to him, holding out her hands. Crane looked from her hands to her face, the question clear in his bright blue eyes. "Put your hands out," Abbie directed. He tucked the forgotten DVD under one arm and complied immediately, mirroring her palm-up position. She slid her palms across his, then took his hands one at a time in her own and rubbed the excess lotion from her hands into his. Abbie studiously avoided noticing how large his hands were, especially in comparison to her own, and how long and deft his fingers were.

"There," she said, stepping back even further out of his space and rubbing her hands together, although all of the lotion was already gone from them. She felt a little bit cornered all of a sudden.

"Is that lavender?" he asked, cupping his palms around his nose. He recognized the scent that drifted from her when he leaned too close over her shoulder or reached around her to open a door. It was stronger on his hands, and missing the spicy scent it somehow attained when gracing his partner's skin.

Abbie nodded and squeezed more of the cream from a bottle into her palm and hitched her other foot up onto the counter, determined not to lose her indifference.

Crane cleared his throat, "Thank you for the...luxury. Would you like some tea?" he asked brightly.

"Please," Abbie replied and Crane dipped his head in a mini-bow and strode back toward the kitchen.

He spent the rest of the night stopping himself from raising his hands to his face to inhale the scent, and drifted to sleep that night dreaming of other ways he could achieve Abbie's scent on his person.


	2. Stupid Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> obligatory modern makeover

Abbie knew it was Crane at her door by the way he knocked. She wasn't sure what it was about the knock that gave him away. It was just so _Crane_. She rolled her eyes at herself. She needed to get a grip.

He must've walked the two miles from the station, where she'd left him for a few hours at his insistence he had more research to do, while Abbie took a well-deserved break.

But it wasn't Crane on the other side of the door. At least, that's what her brain told her for at least three and a half seconds before it finally hit her.

"Crane!" she couldn't stop herself from exclaiming. Her eyes must have been embarrassingly wide, and her gaze traveled, embarrassingly slowly, along his frame.

He'd gotten a haircut. It wasn't closely cropped, like Luke's, but it was a few inches shorter, making him look more lumberjack and less Jesus. His beard was trimmed close to his face, as if he'd simply been too lazy to shave over the weekend. The most shocking thing though, was his clothes. Abbie didn't think she'd ever see him in anything but the hardy, 18th century tunic, breeches and overcoat. She'd resigned herself to it. He needed the comfort of the one familiar thing he had.

But he was wearing jeans. Denim blue jeans that _fit_. With a slate blue V-neck sweater that made his eyes look like ice. His old boots were all that remained of his old visage, but they paired remarkably well peeking out from the boot-cut jeans.

She finally glanced back up to his face, and he was smirking, damn him. He was remarkably pleased by her reaction, though a bit of doubt still lingered, evident in the stiff way he stood, his hands behind his back, his nose drawn up in that English way he had.

"Leftenant," he greeted. "Miss Wendy was kind enough to offer her advice at the shopping plaza this afternoon. Since I am now receiving compensation for my consultation with the department, I thought I'd try to fit in with the modern garb."

This was his home now. He'd accepted that this would be his life. That warmed Abbie in a way she'd examine later. At the moment, she was still a little flabbergasted.

"What do you think?" Crane finally asked, when it became clear that Abbie wasn't about to regain her speech anytime soon.

"You look," Abbie started, waving her hand toward him vaguely. The first adjective that came to her mind was devastating, since that's how she felt, but that wouldn't do. The other adjectives that swam through the fog were even less appropriate. _Foxy, super fine, devilishly handsome, stupid hot._

She finally settled on "Very modern." He seemed relieved. He let out a breath and smiled.

"Miss Wendy assured me you would approve of this clothing for everyday use," he explained. Approve was an understatement. Abbie was dying to know how that shopping trip went.

"How nice of her," Abbie said weakly, and retrieved her coat to accompany him back to the archives for another long stint of trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.

It seemed like every person they passed on their way through the station stared. Crane looked unaffected as ever, but Abbie couldn't help it if she stood a little closer to him and donned her best 'don't-give-me-shit' expression. She could just imagine the accusations when Luke managed to corner her.

And if her eyes drew toward him as they worked in silence into the evening, she could hardly be blamed. Crane caught her a few times and raised his eyebrows in question.

"It's just a little startling," she finally explained, when he'd caught her watching him for the fifth time. "You look so different."

"In a favorable way, I hope?" he asked with a small smile. He knew damn well it was favorable. To vex him, she just shrugged and went back to work, but the next time she glanced covertly at him, he was still smiling.


	3. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I wrote all of these before the first season had finished, so they're not up to date with the goings on. And these were posted on ff.n previously.

"Crane, come on, we should go get some rest. We'll hit it again in the morning," Abbie pleaded again. He was hunched over the table, as he'd been for the past two hours, poring over some latin manuscript.

"I'll be fine here, Leftenant," he said flatly, just as he had twenty minutes ago. Abbie sighed, her patience was beginning to wear thin. She understood the trauma he'd been through, but killing himself over it wasn't going to help anybody.

"I'm not leaving without you," she said stalwartly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Then it appears you'll be sleeping on the floor," Ichabod replied without looking up from his book. He scratched something down on the notebook next to it.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Abbie approached him and laid a hand softly on his arm.

"It's gonna be okay, y'know," she said quietly. She didn't know what else to do to help him. His pain was tearing her up.

Ichabod shot up out of his chair, throwing her hand off him. He whirled around and stalked back to the bookshelf. "Empty lies! Just leave me be, your presence only serves to distract me from my goal."

"Fine," she ground out, biting back the expletives she wanted to throw in his face, because damn that hurt so much more than she thought it could. "Sulk here and drive yourself crazy!" Abbie spat and stalked out, showing great restraint by not slamming the door behind her.

Ichabod stood, shaking, at the bookshelf a few moments longer, before letting the tension out in a great sigh and slumping back into his chair. It was wrong of him to shout at her, but she simply didn't understand the weight on his shoulders. The whole great mess of it finally hit him in the chest and he laid his forehead on his crossed arms on the table.

He found himself at the Leftenant's front door, without really knowing how he'd gotten there. It sounded and smelled like early evening, although he knew it should be far later in the night. Feeling compelled, he raised a fist to rap on the door, but it was already ajar. He scowled, intending to scold her for the oversight, and swung the door open.

"Miss Mills?" he called. Down the hallway, he saw Abbie poke her head out of the far bedroom doorway.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, a brilliant grin lighting up her face. Ichabod blinked beneath the power of it as she came bounding toward him. She leapt up into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing her lips to his.

Beyond shocked, Ichabod braced her under her thighs, for lack of anything else to do. He'd gasped into her mouth, giving her opportunity to take his lower lip between hers and gently nip it. He felt her tongue swipe along it and his knees nearly buckled. After only a moment of unresponsiveness on his part, Abbie leaned back.

"Ichabod?" she asked, her dark brown eyes peering intently into his. "Why are you wearing your old clothes?"

The sound of his name on her lips threw him for another loop, and he could only stare at her pretty face, so close to his, for a moment or two.

"I-Miss M-Mills," he stuttered, "I think something's wrong here."

Abbie unhooked her legs from around him and slid down his long body to the floor. She was wearing a large shirt bearing the Sleepy Hollow Police Department brand, and shorts that ended well above mid-thigh. She was looking at him with such concern and...affection, his heart could hardly stand it.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked in a hushed voice, as if acknowledging it would make it disappear, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted that yet. Abbie moved to sit on the couch and Ichabod followed her. She sat facing him while he sat stiffly facing forward.

"Maybe," she said, musing. "Maybe you needed to have this dream to know that things're gonna turn out."

"Are they?" he asked, with a breathless laugh. He couldn't imagine such an ending to the tragedy that had become his life.

Abbie smiled softly at him and nodded. She reached for his hands, making him turn toward her. Holding his big hands between them in her small ones, tracing the ridges of his knuckles with the pads of her thumbs, Ichabod thought maybe she was right. Maybe things would be okay, as long as they worked together.

"We save the world," Abbie stated proudly. Ichabod didn't have the presence of mind to ask her how, but he'd wager she wouldn't have told him anyway. "The situation with your wife is resolved. We freed her, and she moved on. And we're happy, you and me," Abbie said, smiling. Ichabod's breath caught in his throat.

He couldn't have...would never have dreamed to be so lucky.

"And things aren't just okay. They're marvelous," she said dramatically, then laughed at herself. Ichabod thought he could drown in the sound.

"How long?" he asked her eagerly. She grinned again fondly, as if she'd known what he was going to say. She shrugged.

"I don't know, it's up to you I guess." Abbie stood, drawing him up with her and led him to the door. There, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest tightly. Ichabod settled his arms around her shoulders and leaned his cheek onto the top of her head, closing his eyes to try memorizing every detail of the moment. He was vaguely worried it would slip away from him when he woke. That would be the cruelest trick yet, to have this hope drift away, without truly remembering it was ever there.

Ichabod pulled away only enough to bend his lips to her cheek. As he brushed the petal-soft skin, his eyes fluttered opened in the archive room.

Abbie was standing before him with a cup of coffee in each hand. She set one down in front of him.

"Leftenant," he murmured groggily, sitting up in his chair, "What time is it?"

"Four in the morning. I couldn't leave you here alone," she said unhappily, sinking in the chair across from him. Ichabod took a moment to look at her. She was obviously tired, and it filled him with guilt. But her eyes were still bright, and he was filled with hope.

"Miss Mills," he began softly, "Please allow me to apologize for my reprehensible behavior."

He could see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of her lips, and some of the fondness that Dream Abbie held for him in her eyes.

"I should never have raised my voice to you, and your presence is, as always, a comfort. Do forgive me," he pleaded softly. He longed to reach for her hand, but with the dream of her kiss so near, thought better of it.

"Yeah, alright," she said nonchalantly, though she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. Ichabod smiled, relieved. "I know you've got a lot of heavy stuff to wade through right now, but we're in this together, like you said."

He ducked his head in acknowledgment, for once at a loss for words as his gratitude stuck in his throat.

"I believe you may be right, Miss Mills, that, despite the seeming hopelessness of the situation at hand, it may be alright in the end," he offered eventually.

Abbie took a sip of her coffee and rolled her eyes. "Only had to say it 600 times," she mumbled good-naturedly. Like the lady she was, she let it rest at that.

As Ichabod donned his coat and followed her out for breakfast, she asked him over her shoulder, "What makes you believe it, now?"

"Because you told me so," he answered.


	4. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> obligatory cold, hurt/comfort snuggling

"CRANE!" Abbie screamed into the trees. The sun wouldn't rise for another 4 hours, and Abbie seriously doubted he'd last that long out here alone. There was 6" of snow on the ground, more in the drifts, and it was melted up to her knees and packed into her boots. But Abbie didn't feel the cold. She was sweating from running through the snow and still high on adrenaline. After exorcising the demon from the animals and trees of these woods behind Corbin's cabin, she and Crane had gotten separated. She didn't like not knowing where he was in the station, let alone in the middle of the woods at midnight in zero degree weather when he very well may be injured.

Abbie stopped in her tracks to listen to the eerie silence of the woods, panic making sweat prickle her brow anew. She dialed his cell phone again and cursed colorfully when it went unanswered. She could count on one hand the times he'd used the damn thing in the six months since she'd given it to him. Abbie had the brief thought of tagging him with a GPS chip, like they do to dogs, but highly doubted he'd agree to it.

The snow in front of her was fresh and undisturbed. From here it was a crapshoot. So she took off running to her left, and shouted for him again, but her voice was swallowed up by the trees, the snow and the darkness. Nearly sobbing, Abbie called his phone as she ran. She distantly heard a shrill ringing and stopped to identify the direction. With the trees playing tricks on her, it took some running in circles, but finally she spotted his cell phone wedged in the snow. And there was Crane, 100 feet away, sitting in the snow leaning his back against a tree.

"Crane!" Abbie shouted, her voice breaking as she ran to him and hit her knees next to him in the snow. He was unconscious, with a gash above his eyebrow that had bled down the side of his face and neck and frozen on his collar. His hands were cold to the touch.

"Crane?" Abbie shook him gently, "Ichabod please wake up!"

His eyes drifted open sleepily. "Ah, there you are, Miss Mills," he said, his cold lips slurring the words, "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Abbie sputtered a laugh that was equal parts relief and hysteria. If his sense of humor was still intact, maybe he'd be ok.

"Come on, we need to get back to the cabin. Can you walk?" she asked. He nodded stiffly, and she helped him stand. Slinging one arm over her shoulders, Abbie wrapped her other arm around his small waist to support him. He limped on his left leg heavily.

They trudged through the snow for ten minutes in what Abbie thought was the direction of the cabin. As Crane leaned on her more and more with each step, she began to panic again.

Then she saw the soft glow of the lights through the cabin windows, filtering through the trees. It was the warmest, most welcoming thing she'd ever seen. She nearly cried in relief.

"We're almost there," she told Crane, whose chin had dropped onto his chest.

Once inside, Abbie dropped him onto the couch, where he collapsed, immediately unconscious. She rushed around the cabin, gathering as many blankets as she could. The fire was low from when they'd stoked it before venturing out, and she threw two logs on it.

His wounds weren't the threat at the moment. Abbie was most concerned with the way he was shivering. She yanked his boots off his feet and managed to roll him enough to get his wet coat off his arms and toss it away. She covered him in four layers of blankets, and then shoved him toward the back of the couch to make room for herself to lie in front of him.

Abbie was even more disconcerted to find nearly no body heat emanating from him. She took both of his hands in her own, rubbing and blowing on his icy fingers. She wedged one of her legs between his, rubbing her small, warm feet against his.

This movement woke Ichabod briefly.

"Miss Mills," he murmured in protest, words still slurred, "what are you-this is highly-"

"Sh," Abbie said gently and he fell silent again.

He continued to jostle her and the couch with his shivering, but was quiet so long Abbie thought he'd drifted off, until he spoke.

"You produce a remarkable amount of heat," he said, his teeth chattering, "for so small a person."

Abbie chuckled, "Thanks, I suppose."

After a few more moments, Ichabod relaxed deeply into the couch, shivering only intermittently. Abbie's head was tucked beneath his chin, and he rested his cheek on it. No longer panicked for him, and drained from the events of the day, Abbie nearly fell asleep too.

It was rather an intimate position, and she nearly forgot that they were the Two Witnesses, partners in a war, and not a couple entwined after a home-cooked dinner and two glasses of wine. When that particular thought sent an unpleasant stab to her chest, Abbie shifted to get up, intending to see to Ichabod's cuts.

Ichabod made a sleepy sound of unhappiness, throwing his arm around her to keep her in place. That sent another unpleasant stab to her chest.

"Ichabod, I need to look at your head," Abbie said softly. He harrumphed again, eyes still closed, and released her. As he drew his hand away, his palm and fingers drug across the sensitive curve of her waist. She rolled quickly off the couch, landing hard on her rear and was thankful for the painful distraction.

Abbie gathered a few first aid supplies quietly and cleaned and bandaged his head without waking him. With a cloth and warm water, she cleaned most of the dried blood from his face and neck, but the rest would require a good scrub. She made them both sandwiches and brought glasses of water to the coffee table. She'd have let him sleep if she didn't have cause to believe he had a concussion.

"Ichabod," she said gently, shaking his shoulder. His eyes drifted open wearily. "Can you sit up? You should have some water." He nodded and Abbie helped him sit. His coordination was off, and he listed to one side before righting himself. Abbie handed him a glass of water and watched him tip it slowly to his lips to drink. He handed it back to her, half empty.

"You called me Ichabod," he said dreamily, not really looking at her. Yep, definitely a concussion. Usually when Ichabod was talking to you, he was looking you dead in the eyes, either trying to intimidate or gauge your reaction.

"Yes, I did," she said, setting the glass aside. "Do you want something to eat?" He shook his head, which threw off his balance and he tipped to the side. He caught himself on his hand and righted again, blushing slightly. Abbie would have laughed, it was so damn adorable, if they hadn't just been through the wringer.

"Go ahead and sleep," Abbie said, eating her own sandwich. Ichabod lay down again and appeared asleep immediately. But after Abbie had set the dishes in the sink, she heard him call her.

"Miss Mills," he said quietly.

"Hm?" she answered, coming to stand at his head.

"I believe I'm still a bit chilled." He didn't open his eyes or look up at her, but his words were clear. It was a lie, and Abbie knew it. He wanted to have her close to him again. That thought pierced her chest so hard she nearly lost her breath.

"Move over then," Abbie said and he complied, opening his eyes briefly, but not meeting hers as she slid under the heavy blankets and into his chest. He placed his arm over her carefully, splaying his wide palm over her back.

She was infinitely glad to keep him within her sight for a good while. After losing him in the woods...she didn't want him to stray more than 5 feet from her for the next ten hours or so.

"You smell like lavender," he breathed into her hair as he drifted asleep. Abbie fisted her hands in his 250-year old tunic and leaned her forehead against his collarbone, fighting the wave of affection that threatened to drown her. Being pressed against him from shoulder to ankle was the most dangerous thing she could think of, and yet at the moment she felt safe. She'd never quite fit this way with anyone before. For this brief slice of time, it felt like nothing else mattered.

Under the weight of Ichabod's arm, and the warmth that cocooned them, Abbie slept better than she ever had.


End file.
